


First Hour

by Molly



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Stanford Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-06-25
Updated: 2007-06-25
Packaged: 2017-10-02 07:53:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Molly/pseuds/Molly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean tries to let go; Sam tries not to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Hour

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Cesca for read-through and encouragement and whatnot.

  
Sam finds the t-shirt the first hour of his first day in the dorm. It's at the bottom of his duffel, long past white, a streak of motor oil slashing across the front from neck to shoulder. It's Winchester-clean, which is anybody else's dirty; washed sometime in the past month or so and stashed at the bottom of a bag in the back of the trunk. It smells like Tide and gunpowder and gasoline. He spreads it out flat on the bed and shakes his head. It's about twenty sizes too small.

"Dude," Sam says when Dean picks up. "Do your own laundry."

"What?"

"I said --" he starts, and then he really listens, hears the blast of wind and hair metal. "Turn off the damn music," he shouts into the phone, "and roll up the window!"

Dean shouts back, "_What?_" but after a second or two, the roar slides down to engine rumble and the music shuts off.

"Were you trying to stow away?" Sam asks kindly. "Because it would work better if you were actually _in_ the shirt."

"Aww, you found it! You've got every stitch of clothing you own hung up in the closet or folded in a drawer, don't you."

Sam glares at the dresser across from his bed, then at his empty duffel bag. "Shut up."

"No, see, I read this article that said when you leave a puppy alone, you should give it something that smells like you, you know, something comforting. That way it doesn't cry like a little girl all night long."

Sam laughs. "You are such an asshole."

"Runs in my family."

"Yeah, no shit." Sam reaches out and runs a hand over a worn, frayed cotton sleeve. "So, what, this is some kind of twisted going away present?"

"Nah. The shirt's just a hand-me-down. The Glock in your shaving kit, that's your going away present."

"Dean!" Sam tucks the phone between his ear and his shoulder and nearly trips on his bag on the way to the dresser, fumbles the zipper on his kit, almost breaks it as he yanks it open. Shaving cream, check, aftershave, check, razor, toothbrush, deodorant --

Underneath it all, there's a leather bag about the size of a deck of cards. The drawstring is pulled tight; Sam wiggles it open with the tip of his pinky finger and empties it into his hand. Cat's eye shell, a buckeye nut. A shiny silver bullet. A fine cascade of salt. There's a bottle the size of a finger bone with a sealed rubber stopper, clear water inside. Holy water, Sam knows, and his pulse trips up on him, his breath catches in his throat. The smile surprises him, feels like it cracks his heart wide open.

"Dean," he says again, softer this time.

"Turns out Stanford has a policy against firearms in the residence halls," Dean says. "Sorry; I had to make do."

Sam's knees wobble, drop him back onto the bed. He lays back, feet still on the floor, head somewhere up near the pillow. "You were so pissed when you dropped me off," Sam says, and his voice doesn't shake, it _doesn't_.

"Yeah, well, I still am. I don't see what's so great about a 'normal life', and I don't think it's ever gonna suit you, Sam; I just don't." Dean clears his throat; it doesn't help. His voice comes back low and jagged. "Doesn't mean you're not my little brother. Doesn't mean I don't want what's best for you; you know that. I want you to be happy, and if you can't do that with me and Dad, then I hope like hell you can do it somewhere else."

"Dean, it wasn't -- you know it was never you, right?"

"Sure, Sammy." Swift and easy.

"Dean--"

"If you need anything -- and I mean anything, Sam -- call me, okay? You can call Dad, too. He's got some serious anger management issues, but he loves you. Don't forget that."

"I won't. _Dean._"

"And... hey. You do know." Dean stops. Sam waits, and Dean says, "You know, me too, right?"

Sam closes his eyes. He feels sick with selfishness, sick with hurting Dad, hurting Dean; sick of himself for leaving and for wishing he hadn't. He can almost _see_ Dean on the road, behind the wheel, one hand to steer and one for the phone. He feels the distance between them like a thread spooling out of his chest, and for a second Sam can't catch his breath. He's scared that thread will break, and scared it never will.

"Sam, you still there?"

"Yeah." Sam swallows everything back. "Sorry."

"Didn't mean to make you cry, sweetheart. I forgot how you get around this time of the month."

Sam laughs -- he can't help it, it's watery and broken and he knows Dean can hear it, Dean never misses shit like that. It's good, though; it loosens things up inside. "Thanks," he says, meaning it so much the word feels stupid in his mouth. "For the shirt, I mean. And the other stuff."

"Call them souvenirs," Dean says. "Of a past-life experience or something."

"I always thought souvenirs were stuff like snow globes and key chains. Things you buy to help you remember where you've been."

"Okay. Then what do you call things people give you so you don't forget where you came from?"

Sam's fingers clench around the phone, so hard it creaks. He's never going to forget, he doesn't want to forget, and he doesn't think he can ever make Dean believe him. "Jesus," he mutters, and rubs the heel of his free hand over his eyes. It comes away wet.

"Sam?" Behind Dean's voice, and then behind the silence, Sam can hear the hum of the engine and the road.

"Care packages," Sam says. "Most freshmen get a little more chocolate, a little less ammunition, but. That's what they're called."

"Care packages," Dean says slowly. "Yeah, that sounds about right."


End file.
